


Hurt

by novvaturient



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers: Prime
Genre: Blood and Injury, Collars, Dubious Consent, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Isolation, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novvaturient/pseuds/novvaturient
Summary: A small collection of fics inspired by the prompts from Whumptober 2020.
Relationships: Blitzwing/Bumblebee (Transformers), Bumblebee/Lockdown (Transformers), Knock Out/Smokescreen (Transformers), Knock Out/Starscream (Transformers), Smokescreen/Starscream (Transformers)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	1. No. 2 Collars

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little late to the party, but not too late! So I was inspired by the some of the prompts of Whumptober, and decided to give it a try. I'll update the tags as I go.
> 
> Transformers Prime. Smokescreen/Knockout. Inspired a bit by the story 'Pain and Servitude' by Keytrastar.

The view from Smokescreen's habsuite was beautiful. 

Being one of the highest levels of the new complex building, Knock Out could see all the way to the horizon. He watched the evening light sink over the edge, beyond the destroyed husks of cities in the distance. Down below, iridescent lights began to glow, small beacons illuminating the rebuilt skyways and clean new structures.

The Autobots had wasted no time in getting to work.

In the corner where the wall met the large glass panes that went from floor to ceiling, Knock Out sat on the ground, arms wrapped around the knees against his chest. Looking down, he could barely make out the battered forms of the Vehicons, who looked tiny from this distance. He saw one of them stumble under the weight it was carrying, and watched as it fell down, crushed under the heavy load and convulsing with the shock from the collar.

At this, Knock Out tentatively brought a servo to his own collar, a thin metal band snug around his neck. Unlike the Vehicons, whose collars were electronic and designed to punish, Knock Out's collar was more like an accessory. Smokescreen had gotten the idea from seeing the Vehicons, and became fascinated with the concept. He even had it painted gold, to match the red bot's detailing. He liked how the band looked around Knock Out's white neck, and constantly pulled at it to make Knock Out squirm.

It was humiliating and degrading. As if being Smokescreen's possession wasn't enough, being toyed with and abused, the collar was physical evidence that he was Smokescreen's property. Knock Out spent every klick of the cycle extremely conscious of the weight of the metal, and the tightness around his neck cables. He tugged at it absentmindedly, watching the sky progressively grow darker.

"You know," Smokescreen spoke, breaking the silence and ruining Knock Out's illusion of being alone. He was at the bar near the lounge, preparing a processed Energon drink. "I think, not to brag, but I think I got best pick."

The red bot remained silent. Smokescreen walked over to Knock Out, who could see the reflection of the white bot on the glass, and tensed as he saw the rookie get closer. Knock Out leaned away and shrunk further into the corner, trying to appear smaller. 

Smokescreen crouched down next to the red bot, swirling his cube and eyeing Knock Out's frame. The former medic shifted away, pressing himself against the glass and avoiding Smokescreen's predatory gaze.

Smokescreen smirked. He reached out and spun one of the tires on Knock Out's back, watching as it slowed to a stop. His digits skimmed over the red and black shoulder pauldrons and slowly traced around the rim of Knock Out's vents, making the medics' breath hitch. 

Smokescreen ghosted lightly over the collar, teasing one of the belts running along Knock Out's neck before hooking two digits under the metal band and yanking roughly. A choked sound escaped Knock Out, and his servos clawed at the collar, trying in vain to loosen it.

"Get up." Smokescreen ordered, forcefully pulling the collar. " _Now_."


	2. No. 4 Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transformers Animated. Warning - Blood, bleeding, needles, open wounds.

Bumblebee had been cocky during the fight, confident in his skills. But he miscalculated the distance to the ledge of the tall building he was on, and taking one step back, he slipped and fell. Badly.

The area was abandoned. A few buildings were demolished halfway, crumbling and decrepit. Large slabs of concrete had been ripped up and thrown into piles, some of which had steel metal rods sticking out, broken into sharp edges.

Bumblebee had landed hard on one of these steel rods, the serrated end of it slicing through the armor on his right thigh and down to the protoform.

Back at their makeshift base, Ratchet had removed the damaged yellow plate and cleaned the wound. Bumblebee shifted gingerly, trying to avoid moving his leg. It hadn't seemed so bad before, but now that he was sitting still on the metal table in the improvised medbay, the tender protoflesh was extremely sensitive, and every tiny movement was agony.

The rod had sliced a gash down the front of his thigh, about the length of his own servo. The protoflesh split open, ragged edges revealing that the metal had cut through two layers; the outer layer of protoform, and a softer, malleable mesh that squished out, grey tissue exposed to the air. Through the sliver of the open wound, Bumblebee could make out the delicate nerves of his system and the complex circuitry beneath.

Ratchet apologized for the lack of painkillers and anesthesia. Being stranded on Earth, they had no readily available supplies. Ratchet made do with human equivalents and stretched what they had found in the remains of their ship. He gave Bumblebee a thick pad of gauze, and instructed him to bite down on it. The yellow minibot did as he was told, adjusting the pad between his denta. He ran his glossa under it, feeling the fuzzy, fabric-like texture. It tasted like sanitizer.

With his left servo, Ratchet carefully brought the edges of the wound closer together. Bumblebee winced at the hot, searing pain that shot through his leg and up his side. Internal fluids and black oil oozed out, trickling down the smaller bots' thigh. Bumblebee whined, squeezing his optics shut tightly and gripped the edge of the metal table.

Ratchet brought the sterilized needle closer, threaded with an almost invisible silvery line. Bumblebee went completely still as he held his breath, clenching the edge with force as he tried to steel himself.

He let out a muffled, high-pitched wail when the fine point of the needle pierced his protoflesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know next to nothing about sutures or proper medical procedures.


	3. No. 6 Take it Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transformers Animated. Blitzwing/Bumblebee. Warning - Rape, Non-con. Fairly explicit, so if that makes you uncomfortable, do not proceed.

Bumblebee felt himself start to suffocate, struggling to intake as he was pressed firmly against the berth. Blitzwing was on top of him, his larger frame encompassing the minibot underneath. The triple-changer exvented heavily against Bumblebee's neck, and the minibot shuddered at the feeling. The air felt cold. Bumblebee assumed Icy was in control.

One of Blitzwing's large servos skirted down his side, and Bumblebee grasped vainly at the berth, trying to move away from the unwanted caresses. The touches lingered, a faint sensation buzzing on his plating even though Blitzwing had moved on to another part of his frame.

Bumblebee took a shaky breath as the weight lifted off him slightly, Blitzwing maneuvering into a different position. He felt large servos grasp his waist tightly and lift it off the berth, positioning the minibot at a different angle. He whimpered as Blitzwing ran a thumb firmly over his exposed valve, penetrating slightly. Bumblebee buried his faceplate into the berth, feeling Blitzwing roughly stroke his valve before inserting a digit. The minibot whined softly at the intrusion, feeling the large digit pump a few times before a second was added.

His frame trembled, lip quivering, his processor raced with panic. All he could think of was the weight crushing him, the breathing on his neck, the servo moving inside him. He felt Blitzwing's other servo grip his hip tightly, digits digging into the yellow armor. It started to bend under the pressure, unable to withstand the force. That only reminded Bumblebee of how much stronger Blitzwing was, the triple-changer almost twice his height. The minibot was filled with dread and fear as he realized how much power and control Blitzwing had over him, any feeble attempt to get away stopped easily with a servo.

Blitzwing was not gentle as he thrust as third digit too quickly, reveling in Bumblebee's pained cry that waned into a moan. "Nngh..." Bumblebee squirmed, twisting his hips. The triple-changer smiled cruelly as he curled his digits, spreading Bumblebee's valve, dragging and pressing along the delicate inner walls.

A choked noise escaped Bumblebee's voicebox, a thick, painful lump in his throat. He felt the servo leave his frame, and heard the unmistakable click of an unlocking interface panel.

"Blitzwing, please...don't. I can't..." he sobbed. He was not ready. Of the three personalities, he had learned that Icy was the one that enjoyed hurting him the most this way, savoring the pain he inflicted.

"Shh..." Blitzwing whispered into the minibot's audial, nuzzling one of his small horns, a mockery of a comforting caress. Bumblebee turned his helm away at the pet name.

He started to plead louder when he felt Blitzwing line up his spike. The triple-changer dragged the tip up and down against Bumblebee's puffy valve lips, smearing lubricant, the clear sheen glistening. Bumblebee keened as Blitzing slid in slowly, the large spike stretching his walls painfully. The triple-changer moaned at the delicious tightness, and steadily pushed further in, burying himself almost to the hilt.

The pain in his lower body travelled through his spine, and Bumblebee felt a sudden urge to vomit, even though his tanks had been empty for a couple cycles now. He swallowed thickly, feeling Blitzwing's length penetrate deeper. It was not even all the way in, and he hadn't staring thrusting, but Bumblebee felt he could not take any more. The calipers of his valve stretched to the limit, straining to take the large intrusion. He was convinced Blitzwing would tear him apart.

"Please!" He wailed, agonizing. "Take it out!"


	4. No. 8 Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transformers Prime. Smokescreen.

Smokescreen ran his digit along the seam where the wall panels met, following the line until he reached the end of that wall and started the next. A few paces forward, and he felt the frame of the doorway, the metal case molding jutting out several millimeters. Running his servo over it, he continued until he reached the indent where the two automatic doors met when closed. He tried it. They didn't budge. Two paces onwards, and he felt the other side of the case molding. 

He had passed that doorway five times now.

The room was small, a dark holding cell somewhere in the lowest decks of the Nemesis. At least that was his best guess; he hadn't been able to see clearly when he was dragged down the corridors and forcefully thrown into the cell.

It was silent and completely pitch black, no matter how many times Smokescreen reset his optics to adjust. The only illumination came from the blue biolights on his thighs and forearms.

He didn't know how long he had been there. His chronometer had been disabled, but he estimated that at least a few cycles had passed. He distinctly recalled powering down a few times. Or perhaps not. For all he knew, it could have been mere breems, or millennia. 

At first, he had pounded on the doorway, kicking it and screaming, hoping someone would open it, if only to tell him to shut up. He just wanted to see a little glimpse of light. But after exhausting himself uselessly, he mentally kicked himself for wasting his energy that way. Instead, he took the time to inspect his holding cell. With servos held out in front of him, Smokescreen took slow, tentative steps, until he reached a wall and ran his servos over it, feeling the smooth metal surface.

There were four walls, identical in length, and all of them felt the same except for the one with the doorway. Having established the perimeters and familiarizing himself with his cell, he paced around aimlessly, waiting. There were many times when he thought he heard steps outside his cell, and he would quickly run to the doorway, pressing his helm against the cold metal. The steps were faint, and passed by without stopping, the sound fading away as the bot left the corridor. In all the time he had been there, he recalled hearing steps only three times. 

Other than that, it was absolutely silent. The quiet was so intense that any noise he made, whether he shuffled or scraped his pedes against the floor, was loud and distinct. Smokescreen tried to fill the silence with erratic ramblings, recalling his memories and conversing with himself. But eventually, he ran out of things to say.

Tracing the seam of the panels, Smokescreen felt his way to a corner, and slid down until he sat on the floor and pondered a while. He waited. Though at this point, he didn't exactly know what he was waiting for. 

Smokescreen thought he was waiting for the Autobots to rescue him. Sometimes, during his fitful recharge, he had seen the doors hiss open to reveal Bumblebee or Optimus, a ray of light cutting through the darkness, and Smokescreen felt his spark leap with joy. But then he would wake up fully, and realize that he was still a prisoner in his cell, and that the doors were still shut. 

Over time, he slowly lost hope of ever seeing his friends again. The possibility was still there, but a morbid thought lingered in the back of his mind, the thought that he was going to die in that cell. 

The darkness felt oppressive and tangible, a dark matter that filled the room. His optics started to play tricks on him, and he blinked when he saw flashes of phantom lights, silhouettes of figures and shadows that were somehow darker than the room. They shifted in his peripherals, blurry forms passing in front of him from one side of the cell to the other. He saw static, red and green specks flickering in his vision. To reassure himself that the shadows weren't real, he would look at his biolights, staring intently at the little bars of blue until he couldn't recognize them anymore. 

He was bound by those four walls, and he swore he felt them close in on him. 

And the silence...he hated the silence, more than he hated the darkness. He pawed at his audials, but could do nothing against the noises in his processor. 

Smokescreen knew the room was silent, absolutely silent, but after being in it for so long, his processor made noise of its own, to fill in the void. His audials could clearly hear mumbled voices, but just the intonation and changes of pitch. He could not make out any words. And there was this static deep in his processor, a constant noise similar to the hum of running electricity. 

He had trouble distinguishing between reality and the dreams. He would awake suddenly, processor jump-starting as his nightmares scared him. And he would flinch away from the shadows that seemed to get closer every cycle. 

There came a point when Smokescreen realized he couldn't think clearly, struggling to concentrate on even a simple thought. He couldn't focus on anything. Smokescreen forgot the names of his friends, their faceplates unfamiliar to him. He forgot about the war they were fighting, about his life before he had been captured, about everything. Even his own name sounded foreign to him. He said it out loud, repeating it like a chant, until it just sounded like noise. The cell started to become his world, and he surprised himself when he began to question his own existence.

He was going insane. He knew it. He could feel his processor start to deteriorate, to disconnect from anything outside his own mind. Isolated in that dark cell, alone with his jumbled thoughts, with the shadows, the voices and the static...it was eating away at his sanity.

Smokescreen wrapped his arms around himself, digits digging into the the seams of his armor, lifting the plates up slightly. He felt the sting of pain as the layer separated from his nerves, but he convinced himself that it helped. Because the pain was real, the sparking circuits were real, and the visions were not. That was the only clear thought in his processor, that the shadows moving menacingly towards him as he huddled in the corner were not real. And neither was the light streaming in from the open doors of his cell, illuminating a yellow bot Smokescreen knew didn't exist.


	5. No. 10 Blood Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transformers Prime. Wheeljack. Warning - Blood, wounds

Wheeljack had landed the Jackhammer in the small clearing of a lonely forest. Something was overheating in the engine, according to the flashing warning that popped up on the screen. He manually opened the large side panel covering the engine, and coughed at the puff of black smoke. Waving it away, he peered inside the machinery, barely catching a glimpse of liquid Energon reaching the flame when it suddenly exploded. 

The force of the blast flung him into the forest, crashing forcefully into the hard trunk of a tree. His helm snapped back, slamming against the wood and blacking out.

He awoke with a groan, onlining slowly. Splayed on the ground against the pine, Wheeljack lay still for a few klicks, trying to remember what had happened. There was a high pitched ringing in his audials, loud and distinct, overpowering any other sound. He groggily recalled the faint image of a complex engine, and the drip of leaked Energon. Blurry, dark green foliage surrounded him, the trees out of focus and undefined. He reset his optics, his surroundings clearing up as he blinked. In the distance, he made out the Jackhammer, which spewed black smoke, a dark trail leading up to the sky. He shifted, trying to pull himself into a sitting position, but stopped his efforts when he felt an excruciating pain shoot through his chest and side. Warnings popped up, his processor swam and he shut his optics at the sudden lightheadedness.

He stilled, waiting for the landscape to stop spinning and barely acknowledged the 'low fuel level' warning. He looked down. A jagged metal sheet was impaled on the left side of his chest, along with other debris from the explosion that pierced the metal of his hood. A curled, burnt edge jutted out, the bottom of it lodged firmly in his frame. Wheeljack exvented slowly, taking in the situation as he waited for the pain to subside.

His front was charred, and metal bits heated by the detonation had perforated his plating, melting through the white paint. He felt the sting of the pointed shards as they embedded deeper into the metal with his movement. The sheet was a piece of exterior panel that went along the side of the Jackhammer, judging by the green stripe running along it vertically. As Wheeljack vented carefully, the metal shifted with the motion of his chest, and as it moved he felt it pierce something internal, an intense throbbing deep inside his frame.

He considered pulling it out. With trembling digits, he tenderly touched the sheet. The soft nudge shifted the plate, and Wheeljack cursed as the pain flared up again, with a higher intensity.

He let his helm fall back against the tree trunk, processor muddled with the movement, and eyed the shard warily. It was very probable that it had punctured something vital, judging by the amount of Energon he was leaking. Some of it had started to clot around the sheet, a mushy border around the edge of the wound. Splattered Energon streaked his side, and at noticing the faded hue, he wondered how long he had been out. And how much Energon he had lost. Wheeljack felt sluggish, and with a great effort, ran his servo along the ground next to him. It was still wet.

He brought his servo back, and saw the thin layer of opaque blue coating it. Slowly, he turned his helm and saw the puddle of Energon beneath him, flowing slowly through the blades of grass, muddy with dirt. The 'low fuel level' warning popped back again, and he struggled to read the glyphs. Eight percent. He glanced back at the puddle, a considerable amount that grew slowly. He had lost more than he could afford to lose. That would explain the dizziness, and why he suddenly felt exhausted.

Wheeljack took a slow invent, and sighed, entire frame slumping as the air depressurized. The movement was painful, and he watched as a bubble of Energon spurted out from his wound and trickled down his side, the consistency thick as it congealed. His thoughts were fleeting and fuzzy, but he managed to focus. Five percent. He needed medical attention.

Doctor. Doc.

Ratchet.

He tried the comm link, reaching out to the line directly to the Autobot's base. The signal cut off, and he heard quiet static. Maybe... maybe the line was occupied. Wheeljack waited a klick before trying again. The same static ringed in his audials. He managed to piece his thoughts together and came to the conclusion that the impact had damaged his comm transceiver.

He checked his levels. Three percent. He was barely aware of his systems shutting down one by one. A faded vignette began to cloud his vision, to the point where he could not see out of his peripherals. The Jackhammer in the distance was slowly losing its shape, appearing like a blurred white block against the dark green of the forest.

Wheeljack lay still, the tall grass around him disturbed by his frame. He noticed absentmindedly that there were a few small white flowers sprinkled throughout the green blades. A vague thought drifted through his processor, that they didn't have flowers in Cybertron. A couple of them had been crushed when he landed, their stems bent and the petals ripped off.

He could feel the puddle of Energon on his back, sticky and cool. It felt gross against his neck, wet and clinging to the metal when he turned his helm.

Two percent.

The notification popped up again, an alarming bright red shade that caught his attention. Two. He laughed, a faltering, raspy sound that gurgled deep in his chest. It turned to a choking cough as he struggled to intake. Energon was probably drowning his components, gushing into places it shouldn't be.

Looking up, he noticed the sky was blue, and he recognized the white fluffy things floating across it as clouds. That was the last visual information he processed before his optics closed, and he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went a little wayward with this prompt, but the idea is still there, I hope.


	6. No. 16 Forced to Beg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transformers Prime. Starscream/Smokescreen. Warning - Torture, Rape, Non-con

Smokescreen couldn't stop himself from screaming as he was stabbed with the shock prod, currents of electricity traveling through his body. He slumped forward after it passed, frame smoking slightly. His arm cables stretched taut with his weight, wrists tied with chains high above his helm. The floor was only mere inches away from his tied pedes, and he wished he could reach it, to relieve some of the stress on his arms.

Starscream held the prod, smirking at the wispy trails of smoke emanating from Smokescreen's dangling frame.

"What about now, Autobot?" He leaned closer, lifting Smokescreen's helm with a sharp digit. "Want me to stop?"

In his mind, Smokescreen was strong. The rookie always imagined that, no matter the torture and pain the Decepticons inflicted, he would never surrender. It was easy to think that then, but now, hanging in a dark room and agonizing, he wasn't so sure he could resist. Smokescreen had never experienced anything like this before. He had never been starved, had never been furiously beaten or electrocuted.

He lost count of the cycles he had been a prisoner aboard the Nemesis. But in that time his willpower had dwindled significantly, and as he felt the throbbing ache in his exhausted frame he almost considered giving in.

Multiple warnings flashed in his peripherals, but Smokescreen barely took notice of them. He already knew their contents. Alarmingly low energy, no fuel, damage to multiple parts of his frame, fried circuits and sensors. Exhaustion, fatigue, loss of consciousness imminent. Damage, damage, damage...

"Must I remind you that you have outlived your usefulness." Starscream paced in front of him, watching intently. He scanned the scratched faceplate of the other, to see if his words had any effect.

They had, to a certain degree. Smokescreen's half-lidded optics flicked across the floor, from one puddle of spilt Energon to another, as he considered his options.

As he considered Starscream's offer.

Starscream had told him before, that all he had to do was beg for it. But Smokescreen had promised himself he would never beg, would never give a Decepticon that satisfaction. And especially not Starscream. Something that had frustrated the Seeker, as evidenced by the deep gashes in Smokescreen's frame.

The young Autobot remained silent, optics down and trying to control his erratic breathing.

Starscream frowned, still not getting what he wanted. He was starting to get even more aggravated. The stupid Autobot was not cooperating. Starscream had done everything he could think of, but eventually was convinced that the Autobot had no useful information, at least nothing the Decepticons didn't already know.

So then the Seeker changed his goal. He enjoyed torturing mechs, hearing their screams of agony and watching them writhe in their own Energon. But what he enjoyed more, what he really savored, was hearing their pleas, hearing them beg for their very life. That was victory to him. Starscream loved being in that position of power, the power of deciding whether they lived or not.

But this Autobot was making things difficult. There was really no point in keeping him around anymore, but now Starscream was so set, so decided on one thing and one thing only, and that was to force this Autobot to beg, like the others did. And no matter how long it took, Starscream was going to achieve that result.

"It's so simple, really." He dragged three sharp digits down Smokescreen's chest, watching with mild interest as the metal split and cyan start to bleed through the lacerations. Smokescreen winced, trying to suppress the pained noise that almost escaped his voicebox.

Starscream's bright red optics met Smokescreen's faded blue ones.

"You just have to beg for it."

Contradicting thoughts raced in Smokescreen's processor. He hung limp for a moment, taking the rare opportunity to breath. His frame was banged up, scratched and dented, the metal caved in slightly in a few places. He saw a few dark, burnt patches where Starscream had shocked him. A splatter of dried Energon streaked his frame, and he watched a few drops run down his legs and fall from his pedes from newer wounds. Everything hurt, a continuous agony that would sometimes fade to a strong ache. But even with all that, Smokescreen was still stubborn, and he repeatedly told himself to hold on a little longer. To not submit.

With that resolution in mind, Smokescreen lifted his helm slightly, ignoring the ache in his neck and his lightheadedness, and stared defiantly at Starscream.

"No." 

That was not the outcome Starscream wanted. He let out a furious hiss through closed denta, and gripped the electric prod angrily, squeezing the metal tightly.

" _No?_ " He asked, though he didn't really expect an answer. Starscream paced stiffly back and forth, wringing the energy prod in his servos. And feeling the cylindrical shape gave him a thought. And then he began to fabricate an idea. A different... approach. He flipped the prod in his servos, the discharging end downwards. Fondling the handle with his stained claws, he smirked as he approached Smokescreen. Circling around the dangling, battered frame, Starscream dragged a single digit around Smokescreen's waist. The touch was so light, Smokescreen jerked, startled at the contrast.

"Fine," Smokescreen heard the Seeker stop behind him. "There are other ways..."

Smokescreen froze as he felt a servo paw at his interface panel, claws digging into the edges as Starscream tried to pry it open.

The initial paralyzing shock wore off, and when Smokescreen realized what Starscream was going to do, he began to thrash wildly, trying to knock the Decepticon's servos off his frame.

"No NO!" He shrieked. "Get off me!"

Now that was more like what Starscream wanted to hear. Not quite begging, but he did enjoy the distress in the Autobot's tone. He let go of Smokescreen momentarily, before stabbing his side with the prod, watching the sparks of white electricity dance across the damaged frame as Smokescreen spasmed.

Once his limbs stopped twitching and sparking, Smokescreen felt himself drift in and out of consciousness, and his frame went limp, depleted of energy. He felt his lower interface panel get ripped off, and let out a soft whimper at the pain of the torn connections. He knew where this was going, and he felt dread settle heavily in his tanks. He was so exhausted, could barely move his aching limbs, limited as they were by his tight bonds. The electricity had fried through some of his nerves, leaving most of his frame tingling and weak. The parts of him that had received most of the previous torture were starting to feel numb.

But some of his wounds were still fresh, the sensors around them still tender, making him hiss when Starscream dug his claws into a cut on his hip.

He felt the blunt end of the prod rub against his exposed valve, the handle feeling cold and hard. Starscream moved it slowly, dragging the end of it through the folds of Smokescreen's valve.

The young Autobot whimpered. He didn't want it to be like this.

He tried to twist his body, and squeezed his legs together. Starscream laughed at his feeble efforts, before shoving the handle in forcefully. Smokescreen jerked and cried out at the sudden intrusion.  _That hurt_....

The pain between his legs travelled through his abdomen, and he could feel the cold metal enveloped by his much warmer body. It was stiff, far too straight and painful. Smokescreen let out a choked sob, his intakes difficult. 

He couldn't do it. This was not like what he had imagined. 

Starscream smiled at the pained moan Smokescreen made when he twisted the prod hard.

"Do you want to beg now, Autobot?"


	7. No. 22 Drugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transformers Prime. Starscream/Knock Out.

Knocked Out hesitantly accepted the small cube of high-grade Starscream offered him. It was late, and he was in the medical bay editing some records when Starscream walked in. Knock Out heard no one else pass by the corridor, the Nemesis silent. His frame began to tense with apprehension at being left alone with Starscream. 

Warnings flared in the back of his mind as he took the cube. But there was this look in Starscream's stare, something that told Knock Out he wouldn't accept 'no' as an answer. Then again, it was late, Knock Out's optics heavy and tired, and it was dark. He could have simply misinterpreted that gleam in Starscream's optics, red pupils half-hidden and intense.

"Don't fret, Doctor." Starscream said, seeing Knock Out swirl the liquid but not making any move to drink it. "It's from my personal stash, and no one has to know. Besides, it's quite deserved."

That still didn't fully convince Knock Out that Starscream's intentions were genuine.

"Of course." The medic responded, and forced out a charming smile. He looked down at the cube in his servos, swirling it. It was the usual cyan shade, though maybe a little darker in hue. Most high-grades were a darker, richer shade, due to the concentration and finer processing. A strong chemical smell wafted from it. Knock Out's optics scrutinized the liquid. There were no odd clouds or sediments, just the usual tiny strings of effervescent bubbles rising from the bottom. He managed to convince himself that it was a normal cube of high-grade.

Okay. Very unusual of Starscream to offer him anything, but Knock Out pushed that thought aside and raised the cube slightly. "Cheers," he said rather drily, before bringing the cube to his lip-plate and taking a very small sip.

The taste was bitter and intense, and he scrunched up his faceplate a bit as he held the liquid in his mouth, on top of his glossa. He only managed a few seconds before swallowing it, burning as it went down his throat, through his chest and down to his tanks.

After raising his own cube, Starscream also took a sip, albeit a much bigger amount. The Seeker stared at Knock Out intently, watching the medic's movements.

Knock Out felt nothing. Nothing unusual, at least. His tanks didn't feel upset when the liquid hit them, and his processor didn't feel any different. He felt fine. He was fairly sure that the cube was just filled with normal high-grade, although a rather potent high-grade. Either way, it was free, it seemed fine, and Knock Out was going to drink it. It had been a rather stressful few cycles, after all.

The medic took another sip, a bigger one this time. It was still bitter and strong, but he pushed through it. Having taken more the second time, he was able to taste it longer, noting how smooth and rich it was. This would have been an expensive blend back on Cybertron. Knock Out had to wonder how Starscream obtained such a luxury aboard the Nemesis, especially now, with a war going on.

He realized he had been quiet for a few klicks, and felt the wandering gaze on his plating as Starscream watched him, though he made no comment. The uneasiness came back, and Knock Out decided to chase away those feelings by breaking the odd silence.

"Now, I've had some high-grade in my time," the medic drawled. "But I have to admit Starscream, nothing has tasted quite as fine as this. Where did you get it?"

The Seeker grinned, somewhat sheepishly and Knock Out wasn't sure if it was an act or not.

"Well, it's a little something I picked up from my time in Vos. Mechs there like their high-grade a...peculiar way." Starscream explained. His right servo held his cube, and the other was behind his back, in his usual fashion. Knock Out noticed Starscream had only sipped once, while the medics' cube was almost half empty. The warning voice came back again at that seemingly small detail, and Knock Out gave it brief attention before pushing it aside.  _ A mech could take their time drinking _ , he thought.

"Peculiar?" The medic asked.

"Stronger." The Seeker explained quickly, taking a few steps closer to Knock Out. "It's usually much stronger than other blends."

"Really. Well it doesn't feel that strong to me." Knock Out stared at the cube in his servos. It had felt rather intense at first, and it was definitely stronger than anything the medic had had before. But he wasn't going to tell Starscream that.

Starscream still hadn't drunk much of his own cube, holding it in one servo and watching as Knock Out downed his.

Knock Out perceived the odd behavior of the Seeker, unconsciously tensing and keeping his optics on the other. The medic held the cube, deciding not to drink any more. The high-grade was potent, and Knock Out was sure that if he downed the whole thing he wouldn't be thinking clearly soon. That, and Starscream seemed off. The medic was beginning to feel uncomfortable at how intently the Seeker was watching his movements. This wasn't the usual appreciative stares he would get because of his flashy frame. This felt predatory, as if Starscream was waiting for the right opportunity.

And then Knock Out knew what he was waiting for.

Though he hadn't felt much at first, suddenly he began to feel rather lightheaded. The cube in his servos was losing its shape, starting to blur. Knock Out blinked, and it cleared up again, but it seemed much closer.  _ Was he leaning?  _ He gripped the edge of the med table in front of him as he felt his weight begin to tip forward, feeling like the top half of his frame was heavier than the rest. His processor started to feel muffled and unfocused, as if in a haze.

He was fairly sure that generally, one cube was not enough to get a mech drunk, no matter the potency. Three or four, and then he would have started to topple over. But this felt different. His optics weren't working, everything seemed slightly blurry and would appear somewhat clear for a split second after blinking. His helm felt extremely heavy, and he swore he felt his frame sway a bit. Knock Out frowned. He didn't think his tolerance was that low.

The medbay was tilting, as if the entire Nemesis was turning. Knock Out put the cube down, miscalculating the distance to the table and slamming it a little harder than intended. His entire frame started to feel both loose and heavy at the same time, as if his limbs were weighted and he had little control over them. Bringing another servo to the edge of the table to support his weight, he noticed it felt slow, and somehow disconnected, as if he were moving someone else's servo.

"Something wrong, Knock Out?" He heard Starscream say, and his voice sounded far too loud, echoing twice. Knock Out recognized the tone. It was mocking and cruel, as if Starscream knew something he didn't. Though disoriented, Knock Out managed to turn his helm towards Starscream, seeing the devilish smile, denta gleaming in the low light.

Knock Out's optics widened at the realization that no, it was not an issue of tolerance. It was Starscream. He must have put something else in that high-grade, and Knock Out began to panic, struggling to remember what it looked like when he first took it. Maybe he had missed something when he inspected it. But it had seemed perfectly normal.  _ What had Starscream put in his cube? _

"Y- you," the medic tried to get the words out, but his voicebox wasn't cooperating. His glossa felt thick and heavy, unresponsive. He swallowed, and looked up to see that Starscream was getting closer, and Knock Out was alarmed that he hadn't even seen the other move. His spark beat a little bit faster as he watched Starscream approach, claws digging into the metal surface and plating flaring up defensively.

Starscream sneered, lip plates curling into a smirk as he watched Knock Out struggle to stand, relying heavily on the table for stability. The Seeker had waited rather impatiently for the drug to take effect, but was now very pleased with the results. His optics roamed the cherry red frame, drinking in the curves and how the light reflected beautifully on the glossy finish. Knock Out's optics were wide in growing fear, blinking as he tried to reset and focus them. The medic was vulnerable, and Starscream's wings quivered with excitement as he advanced towards the shorter bot.

Knock Out was focusing on taking slow intakes, trying to regain control of his own frame. He saw Starscream come closer, and closer. Then the Seeker was behind him, two arms slid around his waist and he felt breathing on his neck. Knock Out made an effort to shove him off, but was suddenly turned around and slammed into the nearest wall, one with a counter and closed shelves. He made a startled sound at the impact, and heard the medical supplies inside rattle with the collision. His processor whirled as he tried to understand the sudden change of position.

He blinked, and saw Starscream's faceplate close to his own. The Seeker's wings flared out, making him appear bigger and menacing. "You don't look so well." He pressed closer to the medic's frame, pushing him against the counter. Knock Out felt the metal edge press hard against the plating of his hips, and felt the weight of the taller frame against his own. Starscream's heavy exvents brushed against Knock Out's white faceplate, the medic's optics wide in alarm. He felt faint, frame slumping, and everything around him spun, blurry and distant. The sudden slam against the wall left him disorientated, and his processor was starting to ache. All he could see clearly was Starscream's intense, lustful optics.

He was vaguely aware of his servos being pinned beside his helm, being pushed further against the cabinet. Then a glossa filled his mouth, wet and invading. It was rough and forceful, suffocating Knock Out. He made a muffled, surprised noise when he felt the Seeker bite his lower lip-plate, grinding his denta to hurt the smaller bot. Knock Out gasped when Starscream pulled away, his intakes quick and his spark beating rapidly. The medic's glossa swept over his bruised lip-plate, tasting Enegon. Starscream grinned as he watched a small string of blue drip down Knock Out's chin, aroused at the sight. He couldn't help but lean down and taste it, glossa passing over Knock Out's mouth and licking up his cheek. The medic trembled, and tried to free his servos, but Starscream only gripped his wrists tighter, digging his claws into the white metal.

He leaned in close to Knock Out's audial, whispering something the medic did not comprehend, dazed as he was. But he did understand the wandering servo that snaked down his side and between his closed thighs.


	8. No. 24 Forced Mutism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transformers Animated. Bumblebee/Lockdown. Warnings - Rape, Non-con.

Lying halfway against a console of his ship, Lockdown's burning red optics leered at the mute minibot in his lap, and he pulled the smaller frame closer. The glow from the console reflected in Bumblebee's glassy optics, the different colors mirrored in his yellow plating. 

"You'll make a lovely trophy." He grinned, servo caressing one of Bumblebee's horns and brushing down his moist cheek. With a thumb, he brushed away a few stray tears, enjoying the hitched intake he received in response. Bumblebee's blue optics darted off to the side, avoiding his captor's piercing gaze.

Of all the possible upgrades, this was one of Lockdown's favorites. The little disk attached to the back of the minibot's neck prevented his voicebox from working correctly, rendering the usually talkative minibot completely mute. Lockdown absolutely loved seeing Bumblebee struggle in silence. It was a delicious sight, the minibot taking the bounty hunters' spike quietly save for his rapid exvents.

Bumblebee's frame trembled as he lowered himself onto Lockdown's length, valve stretching to accommodate the large spike. He pressed his bound servos flat against Lockdown's chest for support, keeping his weight on his arms and kneestruts as he gingerly lowered himself.

Lockdown groaned at the tight, slick warmth, watching the little minibot struggle. He gripped the yellow thighs and spread them further apart, and Bumblebee hissed as his stiff joints were forcefully stretched. His optics flicked up briefly to the white faceplate of the larger mech in hatred, unable to protest or speak. The only noise he could make was a hiss of air as he exvented, and the sound of his rattling plating.

Bumblebee straddled the larger mech's waist, yellow thighs stretched wide, the wet lips of his valve spreading around the thick spike. Lockdown's left servo squeezed the minibot's right thigh, and he imagined a black stripe curving around the yellow plating, meeting the small waist. His thumb traced circles along the inside as he considered the idea.

Bumblebee was vaguely aware of the servo caressing his plating, trying to focus on his intakes as lowered himself further, pain spreading through his abdomen. His throat strained as his muted voicebox tried to make a sound, and he dug his digits into the bounty hunter's broad chest, barely scratching the metal. Bumblebee stared at his curling digits, the yellow clashing horribly with the green. He hesitated, swallowing thickly. His kneestruts were beginning to hurt, and his thighs were trembling as he tried to hold himself up. He shuffled, adjusting his legs to ease the ache, wary of the sharp spikes on Lockdown's hips. Bumblebee lifted himself slightly, then eased down again slowly, wincing before stopping. It was far too big for his small frame, and he felt the calipers of his valve strain, hot pain traveling through his insides. Lubricant coated his interface array, and he felt the slick wetness drip down the inside of his thighs, sticky and cooling rapidly.

He paused, waiting for the burn in his valve to subside. His blue optics were fixed on his servos, voicebox raspy. Soft, quiet static sounded from his throat. The small, round disk latched to his neck still hurt, and Bumblebee could feel the soft pulsing as it severed the connections from his processor to his voicebox. He had never wanted to scream so badly, and his throat closed painfully when he realized he couldn't.

Lockdown noticed that Bumblebee had stopped moving, frame quivering as he tried to hold himself in the same lifted position. His red optics raked over the small frame, watching for a few moments how the minibot shivered, taking shallow, rapid intakes.

_ Delicious_ , Lockdown thought as he dragged his hook down Bumblebee's side, skimming over his small waist. Sharp end pointed down, he scratched a line down his hips and thigh, yellow paint peeling and the metal screeching. Bumblebee winced at the sting, biting his lip-plate. Lockdown smirked as he watched the minibot squeeze his optics shut, streaks of fluid running down his cheeks. His lip-plates moved, as if mouthing reassurances to himself.

Lockdown started scratching another line down Bumblebee's thigh, deeper than the first, piercing through the first layer of metal. Precious life fluid bled through. Though the minibot winced, shoulders tensing and a choked exvent escaping his throat, Bumblebee did not move further. He kept his servos planted on Lockdown's chest, shaking kneestruts holding his weight, his small frame only halfway down Lockdown's spike.

Since the minibot evidently would not move on his own, Lockdown decided to do it himself. He dug the sharp end of his hook attachment into Bumblebee's waist roughly, wedging it between the protoform beneath and the yellow plating of his hip. His other servo gripping tightly, he pushed Bumblebee down, forcing his spike deeper into the smaller frame. Bumblebee jolted violently, entire frame spasming and his voicebox spat static as he tried to scream, fluid gushing from the corners of his optics. The minibot's chest heaved, his rapid and panicked intakes making a high-pitched hissing sound. Bumblebee clenched his denta hard, almost biting through his glossa. He balled his cuffed servos into fists, beating weakly at Lockdown's chest, his efforts doing nothing to deter the bounty hunter.

Lockdown pulled the smaller frame down, thrusting upwards, brutally forcing through the tightness of Bumblebee's valve. The modified spike was shoved at a punishing angle, ridges tearing the delicate inner walls, and Bumblebee felt his entire frame stiffen for a brief moment, his processor blaring red and white hot agony searing through his body. Frame going limp momentarily, Bumblebee slumped forward slightly. His abused valve throbbed, walls stretched beyond their limit, and Bumblebee felt the length sear through his frame, piercing his insides. He didn't need to look down to know he was bleeding, a sticky wet dripping down the inside of his thighs. Lockdown's spike felt slick as he thrust in and out, movements rough and forceful.

Bumblebee's mouth parted open, and his voicebox hiccuped and spewed choked static. There was a painful, thick swelling in his throat, his cables sore with the strenuous effort to make a sound. The blunt tips of his digits did nothing as he clawed frantically at Lockdown's chest. He felt the servo on his waist push him down roughly, pulling his body closer to the large frame and forcing him to take the entire length. Lockdown moaned beneath him, a deep guttural sound. Bumblebee felt fresh tears form in his optics, voicebox hiccuping and unable to make a sound.


End file.
